Go to Waste
by JoeMerl
Summary: Granted, Ferb's own efforts in Paris didn't pan out, but why let a perfectly good chance at romance go to waste for somebody else? Ferb/Vanessa, Isabella/Phineas, one-shot. Set just after "Summer Belongs to You."


**Author's Notes****:**_ Phineas and Ferb_ is one of my favorite shows, yet I've only ever written one fanfic for it over a year and a half ago. _What is wrong with this picture? !_

This story is dedicated to **Invaderzimfannumber1,** who was particularly disappointed that Ferb didn't get to give Vanessa his flower in "Summer Belongs to You." So, to make up for it, I came up with this fic. ;-) Hope you enjoy!

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**I stood off to the sidelines of our little backyard party, half-hidden in the shade between the fence and the stage that the Fireside Girls had constructed. I was a a bit weary at the moment (forty hours without sleep will do that to a boy) and just taking a short break from the festivities, the closest of the dancers several yards away and the loud music made indistinct by my contemplative mood.

My attention, meanwhile, was set on a red rose lying on my open palm.

I held it up to my face and examined it; it was slightly crumpled, but overall in excellent shape for having survived a trip across the Atlantic Ocean and half of the continental United States, with two crash-landings thrown in for good measure. I had nearly forgotten that I even still had it on me; I wondered vaguely again why I had even bothered, since there wasn't much use for it now that my original objective had been quashed. I probably should have just thrown it off the Eiffel Tower before I left, I thought; if nothing else it would have made for a moment rich in both symbolism and drama. Instead I had simply slipped it into my pocket, forgotten until I happened to stick my hand in to search for my pocket watch.

...Yes, a pocket watch. Yes, it's old-fashioned, yes, I'm very British, moving on.

I felt another twinge of disappointment as I contemplated the crumpled flower in my hand. It had seemed like such a _perfect_ idea to buy this at the time; almost like fate, that we just _happened _to wind up on the Eiffel Tower and there just _happened_ to have been a shop there. Though even then I had dimly realized it wasn't much of a coincidence—who went to Paris and _didn't_ see the Eiffel Tower? And why _wouldn't_ there be a flower shop there, at the most famous site of what was hailed as the most romantic city in the world? It was common sense, really.

And I had _also _realized, again in the back of my mind, that I was an eleven-year-old boy buying it for a girl five years my senior, and that because of this my gesture was unlikely to result in some sort of epic romantic moment. I had still been expecting..._something, _however. Another kiss on the cheek, perhaps, or maybe just a beautiful, appreciative smile. I had _not_ expected that she would simply fly away before I even had a chance to get that far. (I mean, _really._ That was just _rude._)

I turned the flower slowly around between my fingers, and wondered for a moment if there was perhaps some way I could give it to her now, back in Danville. My mind rejected the idea almost instantly; for one, I had no idea when _she_ was coming back home, and I had only ever run into her on rare, chance occasions—the rose would be dead long before I ever saw her, unless I searched her out. But even if I wanted to risk seeming like a stalker (I wasn't Candace going for Jeremy, after all, _normal_ people had _limits_), the fact was, the moment to give it to her was lost. The flower had only worked given a set of certain, special circumstances—accidentally saving her life in Tokyo, saving her life _again_ in Nepal, listening to her problems with her father, all of which taken together at least gave me a _chance_ of seeming worthy of her affection.

But most important of all actually _being _in Paris, the City of Love and all that. _That_, ironically enough, worked to cover the opposite angle: on top of the Eiffel Tower a boy handing a girl (even an older girl) a flower could be passed off as not so much romantic as just a simple gesture of Europe's cultural charm. Small gestures like that were _expected_ in France; it was romantic, but it was _safely_ romantic, a way to express my feelings without having to be _too_ open about it. Back _here_ in Danville? No; a flower was a flower here, and giving it to her would be as good as a full confession of my infatuation. The moment of "safety" had passed even before I could make it happen.

What a waste.

_I should probably just throw this thing away now,_ I thought, but again my mind resisted the thought as quickly as it had devised it. Somehow it seemed callous to just throw the rose away now (again, that would have been somewhat fitting in _Paris,_ but not back here in the States). This rose still _meant_ something, after all—it represented the way I felt about Vanessa, that cloud of stupefying happiness that seemed to settle over my brain when she was around, and the bizarre belief I seemed to harbor that I could somehow ever _really _impress her. And more than that it stood for that moment in Paris, when it had seemed so simple to achieve that futile objective, that moment that had been quashed but remained rooted in my heart nontheless.

_...Wow,_ love was making me stupid, wasn't it? I hadn't heard anything cornier since my father tried to write my mother a poem for last Valentine's Day.

A change in the background music made me look up for a moment—Jeremy and Candace had taken to the stage now, him with his guitar out, the two of them singing some love song while gazing at each other with big, puppy-dog eyes and broad, besotted smiles. Letting my gaze drift away I caught sight of Phineas and Isabella among the thronging audience, dancing together in what was probably a dream come true for her and a completely normal, platonic experience for him.

Really, I don't want to sound bitter, but it really didn't seem fair. Candace got _her _romantic scene in Paris. Isabella got _her_ romantic scene...eventually.

But not in Paris. And she _had _seemed quite distraught about that. She had probably been _dreaming _that Phineas would stop to buy her a flower like this.

A flower that represented a missed chance for Parisian romance...

I paused. A vague but electrifying idea had suddenly burst forth within my brain.

I glanced back at Phineas and Isabella. They were near the edge of the crowd, not far from where I was. Phineas, in particular, was closer to me.

I glanced down at the rose in my hand again, considering. This flower felt important to me, but—well, what was I _really_ going to do with it? Keep it between the pages of some book or something? Why not just let somebody else do it _for_ me?

It was useless to _me_ outside of Paris. But if someone _else's_ romantic scene had just decided to come later...

My eyes turned back to my brother and Isabella. I watched them for about thirty seconds, studying the wild flailing that constituted their dance moves. It was not without a certain rhythm, however...Phineas looked _that_ way...one two three...now _that_ way...his foot went _there,_ then _there..._

...he turned towards Isabella, they were smiling at each other...

_FYOOSH!_

I put the rose between my index and middle finger and gave them an underhanded _flick,_ sending the flower flying like an arrow to land _right_ beside to my brother's ankles. He didn't even notice; he just continued his dance, turned part-ways around again, stomped his foot—

I didn't _hear_ the "Huh?" escape his lips over the music, but I saw them move, and watched as he paused to look at what he had just stepped on.

Bingo.

Phineas bent down and picked up the rose, turning it in his fingers and examining it just as I had been doing a few moments before. Isabella, meanwhile, only noticed that he had stopped dancing and frowned, until he turned and showed her what he had found. There was a brief exchange of words—"What's this doing here," "I don't know," "That's weird," something of that sort no doubt, blah blah blah, but I had my eyes narrowed to focus on the hardest, most crucial part of the operation—silently _willing_ Phineas, with every fiber of my being, to _not_ act like an oblivious, prepubescent child for once.

I was probably going to give myself an aneurysm in the process.

I watched as Phineas shrugged and smiled, and then, as if as an afterthought, reached up and brushed some of Isabella's hair aside, slipping the rose's stem behind her ear. He stepped back to make a fake picture frame with his fingers, smiling playfully as he made some enthusiastic comment. Isabella's face broke into a wide and dreamy grin as she reached up, unconsciously touching the flower petals pressed against her temple.

A moment later they were back to dancing, the grins on both their faces a little broader than before. I allowed my own lips to turn into a slight smirk.

After all, even if I couldn't get my _own_ little kiss on the Eiffel Tower, there was no need to let a perfect opportunity for romance go to waste.

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**A/N:** I hope that didn't come off as too long-winded; it's sort of hard to figure out how Ferb "sounds" in his head. I debated whether this should be in first- or third-person; part of me wants to go back and rewrite it, but I'm too indecisive and lazy.

Also, for the record, I know that neither he nor Phineas have canonical ages, eleven is just my personal estimate.

Hope you enjoyed, and please review! ;-D


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